


Bound

by pengukat



Series: the two faces of Venus [3]
Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: Canon compliant up to S1, Endgame: Villaneve, F/F, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-29
Updated: 2018-07-31
Packaged: 2019-06-18 01:03:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15474069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pengukat/pseuds/pengukat
Summary: My soaring, precious, hard-fought freedom is evaporating in a whimper, yet all I can see is you, just for a second before they pull me away, you, burned into my skull - you, facing heavenward, eyes dancing erratically, bleeding out, slowly dying, leaving this earth forever - and I must be losing my mind because all I can think is that I would lock myself in a metal cage and throw myself into the deepest ocean just to tether your soul in place.Villanelle must live with the consequences of a split second decision.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> In which I decide to subject people to first-person perspective again, just for the heck of it, just to see if I can.
> 
> Level of research on English and Wales courts of law and murder proceedings is ... somewhere below rigorous, somewhere above sincere. A best attempt was made to fit this into a current, plausible (non-Brexit?) world, but if anything is off to your superior legal UK knowledge, please try to ignore, or pretend it's part of this world, or something.

Rough hands, rougher than necessarily, deliberately so. Head pushed down, forced to the ground stomach-first, arms wrenched out of my sockets, more than one knee digging into my back. 

My soaring, precious, hard-fought freedom is evaporating in a whimper, yet all I can see is you, just for a second before they pull me away, you, burned into my skull - you, facing heavenward, eyes dancing erratically, bleeding out, slowly dying, leaving this earth forever - and I must be losing my mind because all I can think is that I would lock myself in a metal cage and throw myself into the deepest ocean just to tether your soul in place. 

This must be what bad gas feels like, and it better fucking pass soon, or I'm going to have to find a way to extricate myself just so I can throw myself into oncoming traffic.  

I'm might end up doing so, anyway, because I know what comes after this: an uncomfortable jostling ride in the rear of a vehicle; certain brutality and optional unconsciousness at the hands of overeager manhandlers; farces of interrogations in dark rooms and blinding lights and straight-backed metal chairs; transfers and travel to unknown destinations; completely at the whim and mercy of people immune from anything I can offer them. 

Sure, I can try something, anything, just so I don't kill myself from boredom, but even I can admit when my probability of success scrapes zero. 

Consigning myself to a future of all of this, all because of you, you goddamn asshole. 

You'd better fucking be worth it.

You'd better live.

===

Everything happens as predicted. I know the drill.

What I don't expect, after endless boredom, no news of the outside world, days going by without ever seeing sunlight, and completely losing track of how much time has passed, is extradition. Extradition, to a different country. Not to my homeland Russia, or my country of primary residence France, or any of the continental European nations that have a good claim on me, on account of all their citizens I've singlehandedly taken out - but to the United Kingdom, arguably a locale with one of my smallest footprints, and therefore the jurisdiction with the least likely claim to me.

What I don't expect is shit coffee, rainy skies, and the chance to deploy my received pronunciation skills to the maximum annoyance of anyone who comes within earshot. 

What I don't expect is a defense lawyer who is more interested in getting me to talk than I am in what he has to say - which is not at all - even if he does seem sincere about making a difference.

What I don't expect is a genuine Crown Court hearing, a flock of reporters outside the courthouse, a bunch of men in funny-looking robes and wigs, interested onlookers in the gallery, and you, walking into my courtroom.

You, in your boring navy blue suit jacket and pencil skirt, sensible dark heels, your hair bound in a severe bun atop your head with not a stray hair in sight.

You, jolting my lethargic heart back into gear, which hasn't bothered to beat properly since, well, you got me arrested. 

You, holding your head stiffly, your right hand in a plastic cast, taking a seat on the farthest edge of the room, as far away from me as humanly possible.  

You, alive. Breathing. 

You did this, somehow. You made all this happen. You're why I'm here. I don't know how, and it must have taken you forever and cost you more, but you did it.  

I honestly haven't been giving a shit about anything because none of it matters anyway, but I guess I can start paying a little attention.

What, too good to look my way now that I'm just a common criminal behind bars? Well, more specifically in a glass box right now. Just as well. I'm pretty sure I don't look my best, this standard-issue jail attire is most unflattering, and I've always wanted you to see me handcuffs, but in a strictly different setting. 

Still, come on, it's been what, months? It's not like the judge is saying anything that interesting - 

Oh, my name. My birth name.

They've brought me back from the dead! It's a miracle! Oksana Astankova, otherwise known as ... zzzzzzzzzzzzzz okay I'm bored already. Russian prison record keeping, you know how it is. 

... wow, I forgot some of these names, that one was pretty funny. Reminds me of the time I - nope, bored again. 

Some other guy in a robe and funny hair is talking now. 

Charges: twenty-two counts of murder, five counts of conspiracy to murder, sixteen counts of grievous bodily harm, thirty counts of breaking and entering, two counts of kidnapping. These numbers are unflatteringly low... unless they're for crimes committed only on English soil, in which case, those numbers seem a little high. I mean, I'm pretty good, but I would have remembered coming here twenty different times, because I hate this country, I do everything to get out of coming to this country, because all the rain ruins my hair.

I don't particularly like taking credit for things I haven't done. Not if someone's trying to pin something on me. 

Some super-boring guy is talking now - oh right, my lawyer.

Apparently I'm pleading guilty to only five counts of murder, twelve counts of GHB ... these are some really specific numbers, and insultingly low. What the hell.

I told him I was going to plead Not Guilty to all of it. What's the point of a lawyer who doesn't actually do what you ask? And anyway, if I'm going to admit to crimes - that I didn't commit anyway - I'm not going to admit to just FIVE murders. I would admit to eleventy-billion of them. 

Wait - did he just -

He did. He just looked at you.

And you looked back. 

You'll look at HIM, but not ME?! 

... This is you, too? 

He's lowering his voice. Wiping his eye glasses. Folding his hands. Looking sombre and serious and SAD.

In light of the defendant's extenuating circumstances, her tragic life situation, a history of abuse and violence, a life of manipulation and control of blah blah blah blah zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz OH GOD JUST KILL ME NOW. 

I don't need to hear this. Firstly, I was there for it, and secondly, most of this is bullshit.

ESPECIALLY this bit about how I had a last-minute attack of conscience and tried to save the life of the MI6 agent sent to track me down. I can't have people thinking I've gone soft or something.

This is slander! This is libel! 

I don't have a fucking conscience!

It's like someone come up with some sanitised, romantic version of my life story so they could sell it to Hollywood and make a romantic comedy out of it or something, and ohhhhhhhhhh.

Ohhh, ohhh, ohhhhhh, ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

Haha. Hahahahaha. Hahahahahahahahaha. 

Whoops, laughed out loud. 

Oh, I've got your attention now, have I? Looks like I got everyone else's too, but only you matter. You know that. 

Still angry with me. Always so angry with me.

Fine, I'll behave. I'll play along, even!

Just because I'm curious. Not because you're trying to tell me to, with your stupid eyes and your stupid mouth and your stupid face. 

I mean, last time you looked this angrily at me, you were dying and look where I ended up.

But you're alive, and that was the whole point? I think? It's hard to remember. It's been a while. 

I'm probably going to regret this.

Everyone looks shaken. A laughing psychopath, it always disrupts proceedings.

The judge recovers, and ...

Suspense! Everyone is holding their breath, except me, because either way I'm going to prison, so what does it matter? 

... another hearing, scheduled for a later date.

You look stern. You look at my lawyer. He looks at you.

Again, I'm right here, behind this completely see-through glass.

Fine, then.

See if I care. 

===

So now that I actually want to talk to my lawyer, he's no longer interested in talking to me. I bet he's talking to you, though. I just wanna know what you all are talking about. I mean, it's definitely about me, so I totally deserve to know.

Nothing. Sure, decide my future without input from me. Not like my opinion matters anyway. 

I ask for some makeup, a hairbrush, and some slightly more flattering attire, before my next hearing. He comes through with a plastic comb.

Ugh. Men. 

The second hearing has a few more reporters outside the court house than before. A few more people in the gallery, this time, too. 

You're here, too. Same suit, same stiffness, same arm brace. Still pretending I don't exist, which suits me fine, because do you know how hard it is to style your hair with just a plastic comb? Bloody hell.

I'm trying to pay attention, but the two lawyers, the funny hair men in robes are doing all the talking, presenting reams of evidence I apparently left behind or does not actually prove anything, depending on who's talking at the time. Like they're haggling over the price of fish at a market, except what's at stake is the number of crimes I've committed, upon which will determine my punishment and my entire future. 

Apparently the number of murders committed is up for debate in this country. Burden of proof, or something something something.

This is so boring. Five murders, fifteen, twenty-five - even if I get out one day, I'll be an old woman by then. 

So, so boring. Sitting here, in this glass cage, listening to these two old white men drone on and on and on and on - 

The judge is saying something, but I'm not listening because I got you to look at me again.

Still angry. Still glaring. 

Fine, fine, fine, fine, fine. No more tapping on the glass. 

I'll just stare at you. I know you feel the weight of my gaze, even though you're acting like you can't.

You've lost weight. There are more lines in your face. When you move your neck, it's awkward, slow, like you're favouring your chest. You can't move your right hand properly.

You are covered in the scars I have given you and you will never fully recover. 

There are hidden scars underneath, of course, more than just the ones currently visible and tangible. It's been a long, slow dance for you and I, across countries, across seas, across time. I've kept going and you've kept chasing. I always thought one of us - well, you, quite frankly - would end up dead from the effort.

Instead, I'll be in prison before my thirtieth birthday. I'll be the one dying, slowly, in a cage of my own volition. 

What do you want from me? Isn't this exactly where you want me to be? 

What are you trying to get out of all of this? 

What's in it for you? 

How long am I going to have to wait before you'll tell me?

Your face gives nothing away, until suddenly, it hardens. 

The judge is ready to pronounce a sentence. 

Whatever.

Oksana Astankova. Ten counts of murder. Fifteen counts of grievous bodily harm. On account of each crime being an particularly high seriousness offence, normally a minimum starting point of thirty years imprisonment for per single count of murder would be considered; but, in light of the defendant's guilty plea, extenuating life circumstances, and last-minute actions indicating remorse -

And it's like you sense it's taking everything I have to resist objecting, because you turn to look at me just as I open my mouth, ugh - 

\- for each count of murder, the sentence is thirty years imprisonment, to be served concurrently; ten years for each count of grievous bodily harm, to be served concurrently with the murder term; a minimum term of twenty years without parole, after which, dependent on good behaviour and conduct, early parole may be granted, based on recommendations of -

===

There's a loud buzzing noise, like someone has let out a swarm of bees near my head. 

Unless I manage to orchestrate some brilliant master maneuver, I'll be getting out at fifty years of age at the absolute earliest.

I mean, I'll still be hot. I'm not bothered. You'll probably still be hot, in a mature kind of way. I'll probably break your hip trying to fuck you, though.

That seems to be my one major concern right now. No more fucking, of anyone. Which includes you.

I apparently really want to fuck you. 

Shit, I should have realised sooner.

Shit, I really should have fucked you before any of this. 

I mean, I don't know when that could have been, but the one thing that's becoming clear to me is that I should have tried much harder to arrange a fuck with you.

I mean, there's no question that you'd let me do you. It would just require some finessing. 

Instead I was just too busy being ... well, me, and you were busy trying to stop me. Not conducive to talking at all, much less fucking. 

This is the worst. A twenty year long dry spell - if, and that's a big if, I remain on good behaviour.

... Oh god, I'll be sixty by the time I get out. I'll break your hips and every bone in your body trying to fuck you. 

Argh, fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck this is the absolute worst. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning - masturbation references.

You're going to come see me. Eventually.

Of course you're going to come see me. I'm 100% confident of it. 

My confidence level goes up every day that you don't. 

After all, you want something from me. Me, and me alone.

Something no one else can give you. 

There's no other reason you would go to all this effort to get your government to adopt the burden and cost of judging, sentencing, and housing me; to make sure the verdict wasn't life imprisonment; and even before that, kept me from ending up in in a country where the death sentence would have been a certain outcome. 

That's the thought that keeps me going, day after day of twenty-three hours alone in this cell, inside this maximum security women's prison. There are one hundred and forty-three of us here, I'm told, though I wouldn't know it, with my one hour of outside fresh air before or after anyone else gets it, with barely a word spoken to, or even a glimpse of another human being, other than the guards who brings meals and books. 

The routine becomes: sleep, wake up, eat a tasteless breakfast, stretch and work out, eat a tasteless lunch, stretch and work out some more, eat a tasteless dinner, shower, read, sleep, with an hour outside thrown in at random. Like, literally at random, when they deign to take me out.

Working out involves curl-ups, push-ups, push-ups on finger tips, dips, lunges, squats, jumping jacks, and finding myself walking around in aimless circles, once in a while, before I get back to it. 

A book cart comes by once a day. I stick to the trashy romance novels so I have something unoffensive to occupy my mind before sleep.

Sleep involves lying awake in bed, waiting for the lights to go out and the silence to settle, and masturbating furiously against my hand to the thought of you in a myriad of ridiculous sexual positions, sometimes inspired by the trashy romance novels, but mostly just in whatever position I can imagine you in. 

I relive every fleeting interaction we have had over the years, few and far between as they were, and imagine another way they could have gone instead.

Me, stopping to wait for you in that hotel stairwell, instead of leaping down forty flights to get away from you, catching you by the waist as you round the corner and bending you over the stairs. 

You, successfully stopping me that one time at the airport, getting on the right plane instead of the wrong one, detaining me in close quarters in the airplane bathroom. 

Me, running at you every time you took a shot at me, instead of running away, dodging and weaving through bullets, getting close enough to disarm you and push you to the ground.

You, predicting my kill target correctly and ambushing me on site before I carry out my mission, having your way with me in the back seat of the security vehicle. 

The list goes on, and on, and on, as far as my imagination can take me, all the way back to you on a bed, me lying beside you, and you throwing away that knife in your hand.

And before that, where instead of making off with your phone, I stick around and finish dinner, and I become friends with your husband and his little friend, and we have a foursome in the living room. 

And even before that, where I take you back to my hotel room with me, not some substitute for you - you, the real thing, and no one dies just because they're in my way. 

No - back, back, even further back to the beginning, the very start, where two women meet in a hospital bathroom and forget their jobs and names and identities and step into the unknown together. 

And, then, all the way forward to the end - me putting down my gun, surrendering to you. As I have done anyway. 

Of course all of this is just pretend. 

Sleep generally involves very little sleep, because after the pretending, I am wide awake considering all the paths that have brought me to here and now and what I could have - would have - done differently. The answer is always nothing - nothing at all. It's the kind of thing that would never keep me up before.

And the next morning the routine starts all over again. 

And again. 

And again.

I'll wait.

I mean, I have nothing else to do anyway. 

===

Today, something's different. 

Instead of going outside like a docile cow for my usual one hour of fresh air, I find my arms handcuffed behind me, and seated in a tiny room that screams "this is for interrogation purposes".

I've done nothing to warrant this special treatment; I've been on my utmost best behaviour - nearly one full month down and only two-hundred and thirty-nine to go, with any luck. 

So, it must be you. You must be here. 

About fucking time. 

I suppose you're making me wait, and warm this cold metal chair with my ass, for a reason. Three weeks, five days, and nineteen hours since the last time I saw you. What's another hour?

There's a door behind and in front of me, and an armed guard at each. To my left is my own reflection, first time I've seen it in ages, and I smile for the folks undoubtedly watching me from behind it. I look terrifying, even to myself. My face is out of practice. I should remember to exercise those muscles, too - I'll add it to my work out. 

To my right ... an empty concrete grey wall, dotted with holes and air bubbles that form no shape whatsoever. The most interesting thing I've seen in ages! I can see a tree, a whole forest even, and there's a cat in the corner, hanging out on top of a nuclear power plant chimney. 

I'm tracing the outline of a mountain range when the door in front of me opens, and in you come, quietly taking the seat opposite me. Hair tamped down in your usual bun, black suit, grey shirt buttoned up all the way to the top.

So unemotional! So serious! Are you sure you're in the right room? It's me, whom you've spent the good part of a decade trying to track down and stop. Me, who's killed everyone - well, nearly everyone - no, wait, it was everyone - who's ever meant anything to you.

I did it, as you well know, so that you would always keep your eyes firmly directed upon me, no matter what your feelings were. So what was the point of going to all that trouble if you're just going to act like it's no big deal?

Well, I have had a lot of practice recently sitting very still with a bored look on my face. I bet I'll win this staring competition. 

I like your briefcase. Very sensible. Very you. 

I like those binders, too, and the notebook and pen, very prepared.

You might want to turn the recording device off for now though, seeing that no one is actually saying anything. That's going to be a lot of breathing noises you're going to have to go through later. How are you going to tell which of us made what breathing sound? 

One of us, breathing in and out slowly but irregularly, as if your chest cavity cannot expand all the way and interrupts each intake - that'll be you. 

The other, syncing her breathing in time to yours, except without the stuttering - that'll be me. 

Excellent bed time listening for later, I'm sure.

A deeper breath sucked in, now, from you, and I've been waiting for AGES for you to do this -

"I'd like your assistance -"

"I'm not talking until my requirements are met." Perfectly timed interruption, in my own accent instead of the RP one, because I want you to have me exactly as I am. "Better food, with actual fruits and fibres and protein. A TV with subscriptions to GOOD streaming services. Up to six hours outside, depending on my preference that day, every day. Spare towels. Spare clothing, I don't even care if it's just these stupid prison outfits. Triple the amount of toilet paper. No, you know what, just bring me a twelve-pack every week."

There's your famous eyebrow arch. Well, famous to me, when I've gotten close enough to see it on your face. "Do you want me to get you out of prison too?"

I smile. It still feels weird, but I think it gets the point across. "Getting me out of solitary would be a good start."

Your pen tap-tap-taps on the desk. "It's for your own protection as much as the other inmates'."

I said I wasn't talking until I get what I ask for, so I don't have anything to say to that. 

"You know you have it pretty good already, right? You have your own private shower stall. You get books to read."

Why yes, I'm practically in the penthouse of the fucking Ritz Carlton, how have I not seen it?

And ... we're back to just breathing in each other's faces.

How long before the two of us, plus the two guards, exhaust the oxygen supply in here and keel over from asphyxiation? 

"You seem to be operating under the misunderstanding that I have some kind of special authority here." 

"Well, I'm here, aren't I?"

"I don't follow."

"I've gotten off real easy, all things considered. I'm not stupid. Someone must have done something."

"And ... you think that someone was me."

I would spread my arms if I could, but all I can manage with my hands cuffed behind my back is a half-hearted shrug. "Who else?"

"It could be a any number of other factors." You count off stiffly on your right hand fingers. Looks like your physical therapy is a real bitch, huh. "Inconclusive or insufficient physical evidence of your crimes. A responsible, conscientious defense lawyer. Easily-swayed public opinion in a society that's overly forgiving to an sexy, doe-eyed blonde woman with great skin and legs that go all the way up to her tits."

My smile way too easily all of a sudden, though I banish it just as quickly, because that's not the point right now. "That doesn't explain why I'm here, though."

"In supermax? That should be fairly obvious." 

"In England. In your country." 

"Would you have preferred to go home?"

"Are you going to give me what I want or not?"

You flip open a binder. "I'd like your assistance in tracking down the remnants of the Twelve. Give me -"

"La la la la la. Not listening to any of this. Not until I get what I asked for."

"... Give me all the information you have, and maybe we can -"

"Allons enfants, de la, patri-i-e, le jour de gloire est-arrivé!"  

"... Maybe we can work something out." 

"Aus-tral-ians all let us re-joice, for - we - are - young - and - free! We've gold and soil, and wealth for toil, our home is girt by sea! ... You know, I never knew what girt means, do you know?" 

Your face indicates that you clearly have no idea what girt means and you don't care. 

"Ki-mi ga-a yo-o wa... chi-yo ni yachi-yo ni... sa-za-re i-shi no ... iwa-o to nari-te..."

The binder flips shut. It goes back into the briefcase, along with the notepad, the pen, and after you switch it off, the recording device. A shame, I was finally giving it such good material to record.

You don't meet my eyes. 

The scrape of your chair on the ground grates my ears. 

You're actually leaving. 

Saying anything would be admitting defeat here, and it's taking me every inch of my willpower not to. 

At the door, you turn back to look at me, as if just remembering something. "As painful as it is to admit, I'm alive because of you today. Thank you for calling for help." You make a face. "No thanks for shooting me in the first place though." 

"You owe me." The words rush out of my mouth. I can't help it. I can't keep the whiny note out of my voice either. "You OWE me." 

A pause. "Well, you're here, aren't you?" A tiny twitchy wave of your still-crippled right hand, and then you're gone. 

===

The second month is a little harder than the first. 

It's the same as the first, essentially, except it's the second month in a row, and if there's one thing I've never been particularly good at, it's monotony. 

They don't go as far as dropping the food trays on the floor, or smacking me in the face. But the hours outside come more sporadically and less frequently, the book cart often doesn't stop by at all, and when it does the only books available are religious texts and dictionaries, so I end up keeping and rereading the same trash romance novel over and over.  

The front cover contains the standard blond heroine with overflowing bosoms in her too-tight dress and a dark-haired, square-jawed embracing from behind. Her arms outstretched, to the horizon, her mouth a happy grimace, she looks like she's trying to escape. The plot itself is about how the heiress of a multimillionaire loses her company and inheritance to the conniving vice president, plans a hostile takeover in revenge, and they fall in love in the process. One has no clear link to the other.

The sex is passable, though. Blond hostile takeover gets taken over herself multiple times, usually bent over board room tables, desks, office kitchen tables, etc. etc. She's always the one being semi-coerced into it, but he's the one who's actually losing himself in her. I'm a sucker for this bullshit. It's fun to imagine my victims actually spasming in orgasm when I kill them, once in a while, as if they're getting as much joy as I do out of it, but I'm pretty sure they're just shitting their pants.

Anyway, she gets her company back in the end, and of course they get married and live happily ever after and she shoots out three kids from her uterus in the epilogue. There's a version of this where instead, blond hostile takeover gets with the conniving vice president's hyper competent administrative assistant who wears glasses and her hair in a tight bun, who in a certain reading is actually responsible for doing most of the actual work anyway. Honestly, there would be no story without her. Maybe I can write my own ending to this. I should have asked for that notebook and pen instead, maybe. Started small. 

That this has genuinely started occupying such a large part of my consciousness is a clear demonstration of the havoc that solitary confinement is wreaking upon me.

It's harder to focus on keeping my body moving, too; I find myself spacing out more and more in the middle of a workout, losing count of my repetitions. After the first few times I give up restarting from the beginning and just move until I'm tired, which happens way too soon. There is one particularly low point when I just lie on my bed, making faces at the ceiling all day, just so I can say I at least got that exercise in.

This isn't a great sign. From past experience, I should be able to go on for at least two more months before it starts getting to me like this. 

But I wasn't almost thirty then, and the worst injuries I had suffered at that point were surface cuts and bruises and dislocations. Nothing that had required major internal surgery and multiple stitches, nothing that had caused massive internal hemorrhaging, nothing that had put me out of commission for three months. 

You really took a good chunk out of my life span that day. Shaved at least a year off my life. 

Now I'm seriously trying to decide at what point in the story blond hostile takeover would have to invite hyper competent assistant to dinner for their love story to start, and if their second meeting is too early, and okay, I promise to to try to hear you out next time properly. 

If there even is a next time. 

There has to be, right? 

You wouldn't just leave me in here, for another two-hundred-and-thirty-eight to three-hundred-and-fifty-eight months, right? 

Maybe this is all part of your carrot-and-stick approach. Beat me into submission, figuratively, and then literally if that doesn't work. Wait until I cave, and give you what you want. 

I hate to say it, but it's working? Well played, you. 

Just one small problem - I'm not actually sure I have anything you want. In all these years, you've probably learnt as much about the Twelve as I have, if not more. 

Let's see how long I can string you along for. I have to get at least a TV out of you. 


End file.
